Point Blank f-10

by Catherine Coulter

  “Some spread,” Ruth said. “How old is Tara?”

  Dix turned into the circular driveway large enough to park twenty vehicles. “Chappy built it in the late fifties for his bride, Miss Angela Hastings Brinkman of the New Orleans Brinkmans. He had the architect copy the descriptions of Tara from Gone With the Wind.”

  Sherlock asked, “It’s obvious he’s got money. How’d he make it all, Sheriff?”

  As they walked up the wide set of six deep-set stairs, Dix answered, “He learned banking at his daddy’s knee, he told me when I first met him. He owns a privately held bank, Holcombe First Independent, with a dozen branches in the area. He and his wife, Angela, had two children, my wife, Christie, and a boy, Anthony. Tony and his wife, Cynthia, live here with Chappy. Angela died when Christie was ten, of what I don’t remember.”

  Sherlock asked, “Is Chappy into any other kinds of businesses?”

  Cops, Dix thought, they had to know everything. He grinned at her vivid face framed by a head of curly red hair.

  “He’s done some real estate development in Virginia, Washington, D.C., and Maryland. Nothing big or splashy here in the sticks.”

  Dix hit the bell and they waited about half a minute before one of the mammoth oak front doors swung inward.

  “Hi, Chappy. Where’s Bertram?” Dix asked.

  “Damned butler’s got a bug in his gut, was puking up all over himself, so I sent him to stay with his doctor sister in Belleville.

  “And who are these people, Dix? Oh, are you the young lady Brewster found in Dix’s woods? You’re the talk of the town.” At Ruth’s nod, he put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “You and Dix hooking up like that—and that wild Saturday-night truck chase with Dix and his deputies hanging out the windows of the cruiser like Dirty Harry; it’s the only thing folks are talking about in town. I guess that makes you celebrities, Dix. How does it feel?”

  “Chappy,” Dix said pleasantly, “let me introduce you to FBI Special Agent Ruth Warnecki.”

  “Yeah, so I heard, Miss Warnecki. What a kick to meet a female FBI agent.”

  Ruth stuck out her hand to the old man still standing in the doorway in front of her. “Yes, a kick is a good way to describe it.” She pumped his hand.

  “Chappy Holcombe, at your service, ma’am. What do you think of my grandboys?”

  “Well, I’m wearing Rob’s sweatshirt, jeans, and coat, and Rafe’s socks. I’d say that at this point in my life they’re pretty indispensable to me.”

  Chappy showed lovely white teeth when he grinned at her. “You know, Agent, you have the look of my little sister, Lizzie. It was sad though. Died of leukemia when she was fifteen.” He looked at Savich and Sherlock. “And who are these folks?”

  After the introductions, Chappy stepped back and waved them into an immense entrance hall covered in twelve-inch black-and-white marble squares that gleamed even in the dull winter light. Because he’d kept them all standing in the open doorway for five minutes, it was ten degrees colder in the house than it should have been. They watched him push the great door closed.

  “Three FBI agents in my house all at once,” he said as he waved them into the living room, which was, surprisingly, very cozy. It was filled with family photographs, many of them going back to the turn of the twentieth century. “We get some of Dix’s deputies visiting from time to time, but this is a first.”

  Dix said, “Where is everyone?”

  “God knows where Cynthia is, probably at the new shopping mall over near Williard. Tony’s at the bank.”

  “You’re retired, Mr. Holcombe?” Savich asked.

  “Nah, I won’t hang it up until I start drooling on our big-gun bank clients. I can do most of my stuff here at home. Ah, here’s Mrs. Goss. Would you bring some scones and drinks, dear? Everyone sit and you can tell me what this is all about.”

  CHAPTER 12

  TARA

  MONDAY AFTERNOON

  “AND WHAT IS it you want to know about Winkel’s Cave, Dix?”

  Dix said, “Christie told me you’ve explored every cave in the area, Chappy. She said Winkel’s Cave is your favorite, that you know every square inch of it. So I’m asking you to tell us whether there are any other entrances, other caves that communicate with Winkel’s besides the main entrance?”

  Ruth sat forward in a lovely Louis XV chair, her scone cupped in a napkin so no crumbs would fall on the green satin chair cover. “It’s very important to us, sir,” she added. Chappy looked at each of them in turn and put his coffee cup down on the small table beside him, a very old and elegant antique, Sherlock noted, that shone with the high gloss of excellent care. He said, “

  Maybe there are. There are dozens of small caves around here, and some larger ones, too, but I never found any I could get through to Winkel’s Cave. Of course, those limestone and dolomite caves are incredibly complex, and some of them might communicate with each other through channels you’d never know about, much less get through. I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you want to know something like that. Why the devil do you want to get into Winkel’s Cave through a back door when there’s a perfectly good main entrance?”

  Ruth realized in that instant that the arched opening she’d found probably hadn’t been known to any other human being in a hundred and fifty years. She heard Dix say in that calm, measured voice of his, “I’

  d just as soon keep that close to my vest for the moment, Chappy, if you could bear with us.”

  Chappy chewed on his lower lip a moment, absently picked up a scone, and eyed it as he said, “Well, why shouldn’t I help you? I could show you openings to some of the caves I know near there. It’s not like I have to nail down my takeover strategy for Citibank in the next ten minutes. Hey, don’t sputter your coffee on that pretty sofa, Dix—I was joking. But still, I don’t understand any of this. These caves, why do you want to get into them?”

  Savich said, “We’re following up on what happened to Ruth down there, Mr. Holcombe. She got into one of those caves somehow, through Winkel’s Cave.”

  “So there may be both a front and back door,” Ruth said.

  “Maybe there’s one that passes through to Winkel’s Cave. I remember I stumbled across an opening into a large cave near there when I was a boy looking for arrowheads. Only thing was, it was a dead end, only the one cavern. But then again I don’t remember if I looked all that closely through there, and I haven’t been back in forty-odd years. The entrance I’m thinking about is over near Lone Tree Hill, in the steep side of a gully.” He paused, pulled on his earlobe. “I’ll have to show you, what with the snow covering everything.”

  Dix shot a look at Savich, who shrugged and nodded.

  Ten minutes later, the five of them climbed into Dix’s Range Rover pressed in between the caving equipment along with four lanterns from Chappy’s stash of camping gear.

  “A lantern and a flashlight is all you need. I never liked those built-on headlights,” Chappy said to no one in particular.

  “This is a sweet car,” Chappy continued, patting the dashboard. “Christie loved this car, said the Brits got it right with this one. I bought it for her for Christmas three years back. It’s the Westminster Edition, only three hundred of them imported that year. She liked this soft black leather, said she loved to get it up to ninety just to watch your face go red, Dix, and your fingers turn white clutching the chicken stick.”

  Chappy saw the closed look on Dix’s face, the same look he’d worn for nearly a year now. At least it was better than the blank despair Dix had shown that first year.

  Dix didn’t respond. They both looked out at the road in silence, and Ruth was left to wonder where Christie was. If she’d left, why hadn’t she taken her prized car?

  After a couple of minutes, Dix said, as he wiped his gloved hand over the bit of fog on the windshield, “

  You guys okay back there? Enough room?”

  Savich laughed. “I’ve been trying to talk Sherlock onto my lap, but no
go. Yes, there’s plenty of room for us and all the lanterns, too.”

  Ruth said, “Hey, Dillon, when I get my driver’s license replaced, will you let me drive the Porsche?”

  “You think I’d let someone drive my Porsche who didn’t even know who she was until yesterday?

  Forget it, Ruth.”

  Sherlock said, “Your amnesia has nothing to do with it, Ruth. He won’t let anyone drive that car.”

  Chappy turned in the seat. “A Porsche?”

  “Yes, sir, a 911 Classic. Red, nearly as old as I am.”

  “You’re a big guy—you fit in that thing?”

  “He fits great,” Sherlock said. “I have to beat the women off with a stick.”

  “More often it’s the guys,” Savich said, “with their heads under the hood.”

  Chappy had Dix turn right off Raintree Road onto a single-lane road that was covered in snow and badly rutted. Dix said, “No one’s ever plowed this road. The snow looks pretty deep but I think we can get through. The Rover has never let me down.”

  It was slow going, the snow reaching nearly to the top of the Range Rover’s wheels at times, but they kept moving. They passed a couple of old wooden houses set in hollows of land a good ways back from the road, surrounded by trees, snow piled high around them and over the old cars parked in the driveways.

  Dix said more to himself than to anyone else, “That’s Walt McGuffey’s place. It doesn’t look like he’s left the house in a while. I’d better call Emory, have him check to see if Guff is okay.” He pulled out his cell phone and called the station.

  When he signed off, Ruth noticed how quiet it was out in the woods. The bright midday sun beat down, glistening off the white hills, sending drops of snowmelt falling in a rapid cadence from the naked oak branches.

  The road dead-ended about fifty feet ahead. Dix said, “I don’t think we should go off-road in this snow.”

  “Don’t try, we’re close enough,” Chappy said. “We’ve got us a little hike now. Ruth, you up for it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ruth said. “A little thump on the head wouldn’t stop me. I’m up for about anything.”

  “Bring your shovel, Dix,” Chappy said.

  The snow was so deep it was inside their boots within fifteen steps of the road. They heard a rustle in the trees to their left, and a rabbit appeared, stared at them, and hopped back into the woods, up to his neck in snow.

  “I don’t think he’s one of the bad guys,” Dix said. “Look around you, it doesn’t get more beautiful than this.”

  Chappy said, “Yeah, yeah, you’re a regular PR guy for Maestro, and here you are, a city boy.”

  Dix rolled his eyes. “Not anymore, Chappy. I’ll tell you, when I visited my family in New York City last year, it seemed like I’d landed on a different planet.”

  Ruth bent over to retie her boot laces. “How much farther, Mr. Holcombe?”

  “Call me Chappy, Special Agent.”

  Ruth laughed. “I guess you’d best call me Ruth.”

  “I’ll try, Ruth. But you know, that sounds like you stepped out of the Old Testament or should be home, spinning cloth in front of a fire.” Chappy stopped a moment, scanned. “Over there, I think, another thirty or so yards,” he said, pointing. “You can see Lone Tree Hill—that single oak tree standing on top of that rise? It’s been standing sentinel up there longer than I’ve had feet on the ground. The snow’s really changed how everything looks—the snow and all the years.”

  They trudged on toward that single oak tree. Nearly goose-stepping through the snow with the bright sun overhead, they weren’t cold, but their feet were wet through. “Rob’s got lots of wool socks he can lend us, if you need any,” Ruth said to Sherlock. “Dix can see to Dillon.”

  Chappy held up his hand, stopped. They were standing some ten feet from the edge of a gully that fell at least twenty feet, forming a bowl of sorts some thirty feet across. The sides of the gully were covered with scraggly trees and blackberry bushes, all weighed down with snow. Lone Tree Hill stood to their left, upslope, the oak tree silhouetted against a cobalt sky, its branches laden with snow. Ruth said, “It looks sort of like a Christmas tree. I’ll bet it’s a favorite for photographers.”

  “Yeah, but mostly from a distance. Few people come up here,” Chappy said, wiping snow off his arms. “

  My wife loved to paint that tree, in every season. A lot of people can see it from all around here.”

  Chappy pointed to the far side of the gully. “Over there, by that bent old pine tree, that’s where the cave opening is. That old tree looked near death when I was a boy. It still looks like it’s about to fall over.”

  Once they’d made it across the gully and climbed up some six feet, Chappy stopped. “The opening must be right there, beneath all that brush.”

  The brush came away easily, too easily. Savich stepped back when Dix began to shovel away the snow that had fallen through the brush. When he hit solid rock, he looked over his shoulder at Chappy. “You’

  re sure, Chappy? There doesn’t seem to be an opening here. Should I try to the left or the right?”

  Chappy shook his head. “Nope, right there, Dix, by the twisted old bush. I’m not totally senile yet.”

  “Wait a minute,” Savich said. He squatted down and wiped away the remaining dirt and snow with his gloved hand. “Chappy’s right. This is the spot all right. That brush came away awfully easy, didn’t it, Dix? It looks like somebody’s packed a bunch of rocks in here. To hide the entrance.”

  “They did a nice job of it,” Sherlock said. “It’s invisible until you brush it clean and look real close. This could be where you got out, Ruth. It looks like somebody’s trying to cover up that cave from both ends.”

  “Dix, you think you can pry those rocks out of the way with your shovel?” Ruth asked.

  “Let’s give it a shot,” Dix said. He wedged the shovel beneath the lowest rocks and shoved it down into the earth. It took a lot of muscle, but after five minutes, Sherlock had pulled out the last stone. They caught their breath, staring at a cave opening in the side of the hill, maybe four feet high, three feet wide. They looked into blackness.

  “Just a moment, Dix,” Chappy said, elbowing his way forward. “Let me check this out first.” Chappy leaned down into the opening. “Yep, I remember now. There’s the easy slope downward, to the right. You have to press hard to the right because two feet to the left there’s a nearly sheer wall that plunges straight down. When I was a teenage boy with more luck than brains, I tried to rappel down. Maybe twenty feet later I freaked out because out of nowhere bats were swarming all around me, heading up to the cave entrance.

  “I remember that right-hand passage led to one big chamber. I don’t remember any connections to Winkel’s Cave, but I suppose there may be some small ones.

  “I’ll go first. You follow close behind me, single file. I remember it widens out pretty fast.”

  Dix laid his hand on his father-in-law’s shoulder. “Ruth might have been exposed to gas in there, Chappy. There could be residue. I don’t want you swooning away at my feet. Think of your reputation. I’d prefer it if you’d let me go in first. I’ll be careful, I’ll keep pressed to the right.”

  “I hate it when a snot-nosed kid plays sheriff.”

  Dix laughed. “I’m paid to push you out, old man, if it means keeping you safe.” Dix lifted his flashlight to shine it down into the opening. It sloped down but the ceiling was more or less level, so it was well over six feet high very quickly. And it looked narrow, but not so much that he couldn’t get through. He eased through the opening, climbed down five steps to the right, and called back, “It’s seems okay down here so far.”

  They followed him in, Savich bringing up the rear. Dix stopped when the space widened enough for them to all stand together. They shone their head lamps around them in the small space, and realized they’d been walking along a limestone ledge.

  “Well, that’ll make your blood pump a bit,” Ruth said. She
walked over to the edge and panned her head lamp upward. She saw glistening stalactites spearing down from a ceiling that was another twenty feet above them. She couldn’t see the bottom. “The limestone is stained. Look, it’s been gouged out in places. I wonder why.”

  “It smells nice and fresh in here,” Savich said, “which means all that rock and dirt wasn’t piled in that opening for very long, not long enough for the air to go stale. Since someone went to all the trouble of hiding the entrance, this must be the place we’re looking for.”

  They made their way slowly and carefully down the ledge. Ruth asked Chappy, “The chamber this passage opens into, do you remember how big it is?”

  “Good-sized, maybe forty feet across, maybe five, ten feet more the long way. But there’s this weirdly shaped limestone niche inset deeply into the back wall that makes it seem even bigger.”

  “I don’t suppose you found anything in that niche?”

  Chappy gave her a sharp look. “I remember as a kid thinking there should be Indian relics set in there, but I didn’t find any.” He shook Dix’s sleeve. “Okay, you’re going to twist more to the right, I think, and then this passage drops off again—pretty steep so be careful—and dumps you right out into the big chamber.”

  When they’d all stepped down into the chamber after Dix, Chappy asked, “Was this the chamber you were in, Ruth?”

  “I don’t know yet, Chappy. I don’t remember much.”

  “Let’s head in, see if we can find out,” Savich said.

  Dix stepped farther into the cavern, his Coleman lantern casting misshapen shadows on the walls ahead of them.

  CHAPTER 13

  IT WAS LIKE a large vault, the ceiling soaring upward, with myriad groups of stalactites of incredible shapes hanging like chandeliers above their heads. But many of those within reach weren’t whole, more like jagged, broken spears, scattered chunks tossed about on the cavern floor. “What a shame,” Ruth said. “Men did this.”